


Much Too Much

by greyskygirl



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Belly Kink, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Feeding Kink, M/M, Weight Gain, chubby bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-26 09:22:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6233197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyskygirl/pseuds/greyskygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’ve got a routine down now: Bucky eats, and Steve watches. And it’s working for them both … right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much shameless kink. These two have taken up permanent residence in my head lately, and then I stumbled across a fic that made me go, "Oh, wow, I didn't know I liked that, THAT MAKES SO MUCH SENSE NOW," and things happened from there.
> 
> (That fic was the glorious [2000 Miles](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5475530/chapters/12653423) by [wreckingthefinite](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckingthefinite/pseuds/wreckingthefinite) \-- SO good.) 
> 
> I haven't written anything in a long, long time, so I'm a huge bundle of nerves putting this out there, which is to say that feedback is very welcome. (Also, we won't earn the rating until the next part, but it's coming!)
> 
> As of 3.30.16, it's been pointed out to me that it would be helpful to have a vomit warning for this chapter; I apologize for not thinking of it and adding that sooner. It happens late in the chapter and is non-graphic, but please make note if that's something you'd rather not read.

When Steve opened the apartment door, Bucky was already at the dining room table, waiting for him with an indolent grin on his face. Steve shook his head, laughing as he returned a teasing smile.

“You’re a menace, you know it?” he said as he turned to shut the door, straining plastic bags hanging from his left hand. “We’re gonna have to find a new place. They actually looked nervous when I walked in.”

“They oughta be grateful,” Bucky proclaimed, beckoning Steve forward with his metal arm until he could grab for the bags and heft them onto the table. “You got it all, right?” 

He was leaning forward as he spoke, pulling out the bags’ contents eagerly as Steve settled into a chair. Bucky pulled seven -- no, eight -- Styrofoam containers from the bag and sent a smirk across the table. 

“You eatin’, or just watchin’?”

With a mock glare, Steve slid a container from Bucky’s pile, opening it to reveal a family-size helping of manicotti.

“Save me some,” Bucky said seriously, already sliding a fork into the lasagna in front of him while flipping another container open with his free arm to reveal a double portion of garlic bread. He shoveled the first heaping bite into his mouth, and his eyes briefly flickered shut in pleasure. “S’good,” he said, folding a piece of garlic bread in half and devouring it in two bites. “Sure we’ve got enough bread?”

Steve watched intently as three more pieces swiftly disappeared and Bucky dug into the baked ziti. He managed to take two bites of manicotti before the scene across the table stole first his focus, then his breath.

Bucky was wholly intent on his food-- or at least, what remained of his food. Steve was sure it had been less than five minutes … maybe even less than three … since Bucky had begun, and the contents of the containers were vanishing at a rate that was managing to surprise Steve, who’d thought himself used to the spectacle. 

(As if it was possible to get used to Bucky actually being here, with him. As if seeing him every day, talking to him, _touching him_ … as if any of that would ever be commonplace to Steve. It was a gift.) 

They were only a month or so into what Steve privately thought of as their “abnormal normal”; certainly he didn’t know anyone else who had the same obsessive fascination with everything their best friend ate and the resulting impact on his physique. To be fair, Bucky’s weight gain had started without either Steve’s involvement or his encouragement. 

He’d watched, as Bucky’s food intake seemed to increase daily. Noticed -- because how could he not -- as the shirts got tighter across the mound of Bucky’s gut and the jeans strained to button over the newly fleshy hips. And sure, at first he’d died a little inside at the thoughts he was having about Bucky’s burgeoning belly-- he couldn’t act on them, obviously. Except then he had to act on them, in private, hoping like hell Bucky’s hearing was less enhanced than his own as he muffled his groans, shoving his face into his pillow as he stripped his cock.

Then Bucky had noticed him watching, and with a smirk that Steve thought should actually be made illegal, he’d asked whether he should be charging admission for the floor show. After that, things just happened.

Like they were happening tonight. His appetite had faded -- not faded, _changed_ \-- the minute the fork had touched Bucky’s lips. His breathing was rapider, shallower, and he thought his own pants were probably on the way to being just as uncomfortable as Bucky’s looked, though for different reasons. Bucky liked to indulge in food; Steve indulged in watching Bucky.

“It’s …” Steve started, clearing his throat when his voice came out slightly strangled. Bucky glanced up, a smear of sauce on his cheek as he lifted his fork again. “It’s not a race, Buck. Pretty sure we’ve got enough.” He didn’t mention the gallon of pistachio ice cream waiting in the freezer. Maybe Bucky’d have that for breakfast; Steve had other plans for tonight’s dessert. (He’d seen the Hunger Games movies by now, okay? He volunteered as fucking tribute, pun absolutely intended.)

Bucky considered for a moment, poking his fork into a glob of cheese and bringing it to his mouth. His blue eyes were equal parts watchful and amused; he set his fork down. “That a complaint, Stevie? ‘Cause I can stop.” 

He pushed the eggplant parmesan out of reach, never taking his eyes from Steve. “If you think I’m overdoin’ it, say so. Tell me to stop.”

Steve took a deep breath and shook his head, slowly extending his arm to push the container back to its rightful place in front of Bucky. “That’s not-- I don’t--” he trailed off, his shrug almost shy. He exhaled and met Bucky’s eyes again. “Don’t stop.”

“S’what I thought,” Bucky said, eyeing the remaining spread of food. “Maybe just a little more, huh? Don’t wanna waste it.”

_No chance of that_ , Steve thought. He’d gotten his money’s worth with that first bite and the glorious pleasure on Bucky’s face. Which still bore that distracting smear of sauce.

“Uh, Buck,” he said, swallowing hard. Though he was distracted by the last piece of garlic bread, it took only a second for Bucky to finish his bite and glance up. “You’ve got some--” Steve gestured to his own cheek.

The metal arm raised slightly, Bucky breathing heavily, like even that motion was too much to ask of him, and a finger extended to swipe at his cheek. He glanced down, shrugged, and sucked the silver digit into his mouth. 

“Jesus Christ,” Steve muttered, shifting in his chair as arousal threatened to short-circuit his brain.

Bucky’s fork clattered to the table as he exhaled heavily. Flesh and metal hands alike splayed over the expanse of his belly, rubbing small circles into the swollen flesh peeking out, his black henley having given up any pretense of being able to contain him. Bucky let out a groan that managed to express both deep contentment and serious discomfort, shoving his chair away from the table.

“Think I’m done,” he murmured, sneaking a glance across the table and smirking at the glassy-eyed expression on Steve’s face. He shifted in his chair, palm tugging the waistband of his jeans away from where his belly spilled over, smirk sliding from his face as he groaned again. As he reached for the button, Steve shoved his own chair back.

“Get that for you,” Steve muttered, exhibiting none of his usual grace as he lunged to close the space between Bucky’s jeans and his own hands. 

Bucky panted out a breath as Steve liberated the button, swollen belly expanding into the free space instantly. 

“Better?” Steve asked quietly. Bucky nodded, and in the next second, Steve was straddling his lap. His hands quickly pushed Bucky’s aside, tugging the henley up with purpose to reveal more of the pale, pudgy gut. 

“Buck,” Steve breathed out, pressing gentle fingers into the flesh, watching it wobble in response. “So this is where it all went, huh?”

Bucky huffed out a small laugh, not bothering with a response, focused instead on the feeling of Steve’s body against his. His thicker thighs supported Steve’s weight easily, and he took a moment to revel in that. Even now, the feeling of being able to take care of Steve was important to him -- and okay, maybe it had taken an unexpected turn of late, but there was comfort in his new size, amplified by the knowledge that his Steve liked him like this.

Steve shifted on his lap then, hand moving to his own jeans, and as he slid backward to work at his button, he leaned too far and flailed to regain his balance. Bucky’s hand fisted in the back of his shirt a second too late-- one of Steve’s windmilling arms had landed a hard elbow into his painfully swollen gut. 

He’d think later that it figured, right? He could stuff himself full of a meal that could have fed all the Howling Commandos and suffer no real damage, but a misplaced elbow at the worst possible time -- that was too much.

“Fuck.” Bucky moved instantly, extending his metal arm to move Steve off his lap, ignoring the flustered apologies because _he had to move_. 

“Outta my way, outta my way.” The words came out as a growl, but he couldn’t soften his tone or pause at the confusion on Steve’s face, because he was up now and lurching down the hall. 

He fell to his knees just in time to lose his meal into the toilet. He choked, retching once more, and felt Steve settle behind him, a careful hand on his back. When the nausea passed, he leaned back heavily against Steve’s chest. Steve’s arms came around as if to embrace him, but he avoided touching

“That fuckin’ ruined the mood, huh?” He was aiming for levity, but Steve’s heavy sigh let him know he’d missed the mark. He heard Steve draw a breath, knew he was going to apologize and cut it off.

“It was an accident, Stevie. Unless you have a thing for watchin’ me puke my guts out, too? Gotta say, if that’s the case, not sure I’m on board for it.”

“Definitely not” came the muttered response, and Bucky nodded, gut still churning as he heaved himself to his feet, stumbling to the sink to rinse his mouth. 

He held out a hand to Steve, beckoning with metal fingers. “Come on, pal. Nobody’s gettin’ any tonight, but we can still cuddle. You’re gonna have to be the big spoon.”

He hated the guilty, hangdog expression on Steve’s face as they made their way to bed. Bucky slipped under the covers, turning onto his side to cradle his aching belly, and Steve left the room, returning with a glass of water and two Pepto-Bismol tablets.

Bucky swallowed, setting the glass on the nightstand and patting the space behind him. “Get over here.”

Steve slid in beside him, body pressed up against Bucky’s back, but kept his arms at his sides. In the dark, Bucky rolled his eyes and reached back, tugging Steve’s arm around his middle.

“I’m not glass,” he said quietly. “Just keep your elbows outta my gut and hold me, all right?”

Steve murmured his assent, brushing his lips over Bucky’s neck, and they both fell into restless sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky does some thinking and completes a mission, of sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, first, thanks to everyone who commented or left kudos -- it had been so long since I'd posted anything, I was incredibly nervous, so the feedback was very, very welcome.
> 
> It took longer than I thought to get this next part up, but that's because apparently there are going to be three parts instead of two (which means that the explicit stuff is happening NEXT time, sorry).

When he woke in the morning, there was no warm body pressed up against his back. He’d known Steve was upset, sure, but it seemed a bit overdramatic (even for him) to have left without even a-- oh, look, there _was_ a note on the nightstand.

_Buck -_

_Sorry about last night. ~~I never meant~~ ~~I don’t want to make you~~ I’m going for a run and then meeting Sam. Be back ~~when I’ve got my head sorted out~~ later. Probably after supper._

_S._

Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, note in hand, considering. Steve was rattled, and Bucky knew, like no one else ever had or ever would, that when Steve was rattled, he acted rashly. The world knew about the Valkyrie crash; Bucky could recall with ease a dozen mini-Valkyrie moments before Captain America sprang to life in a tube. Steven Grant Rogers hadn’t always been the star-spangled man with a plan; what he had been - and still was - was a hothead with a fierce sense of justice. 

And an equally fierce sense of guilt.

Sam was likely to get an earful of that guilt, though maybe a heavily edited version. A smile quirked at Bucky’s lips at the thought of Steve attempting to thoroughly explain the last night’s events without a mighty blush. Yeah, Sam would hear carefully chosen bits. With Steve cast in the role of-- what? Food pusher? Evil temptress? Bucky would have liked to be a fly on that wall. Except for the fact that there shouldn’t be a wall, or a fly, or a conversation he wasn’t part of.

He exhaled roughly, annoyed. They should be working this out together, instead of Steve running a mile for every bite of food Bucky had taken in the last month or something equally ridiculous. 

Bucky knew that Steve worried about him, and he mostly understood it. But-- everything considered, he was doing pretty damn well, he thought.

He was moving forward, away from everything Hydra had made him, with every choice he made for himself. And he was reconnecting with the Bucky Barnes that Hydra had tried to program out of existence - the Bucky who knew his own damn mind and acted accordingly. He wasn’t the same, could never be. But he didn’t have to be what they’d wanted, either.

What did _he_ want? 

Being here, with Steve, was a good start. He wanted that, wanted it a lot. Steve was both familiar and not, known and unknown. The memories - at least the _good_ memories - that Bucky had, those were almost entirely of Steve.

He stood and padded into the bathroom to stand in front of the mirror. He’d shed his henley sometime in the night, so the formerly subtle swell of his belly was on full display. He hadn’t paid much attention to the weight he was gaining. His body was finally just that -- a body, neither a weapon of someone’s making nor a tool to be precisely maintained. And so a few extra pounds, and then a few more, made no difference. It felt good to eat, and so he did. It felt better doing it with Steve’s eyes locked on him, because then it was a thing that felt good and one that made Steve happy. 

He’d always been willing to do anything to make Steve happy.

He let his flesh hand trail slowly, purposefully down his side, pausing when he reached the underside of his belly. It was a solid weight in his hand, and he flexed his fingers to watch it wobble against them. 

Okay, yeah, he was a little bit fat. But his shoulders were wide and strong, and the new curve to his stomach seemed _right_ , as he stared at his reflection. There was still muscle visible there; he was still strong. He could still take out anything that threatened him. 

Thing was, the only threat he saw right now was Steve’s new uncertainty. And that demanded a different response than any enemy he’d ever faced. From what he could make of that mess of a note, Steve had taken last night’s mishap and rolled it around his head like a tumbleweed, gathering up doubts and questions and stray bits of guilt.

He’d be damned if one stray elbow was going to ruin this. No way, pal. This was happening for as long as they both wanted it - and Bucky knew in his bones that they both did. Probably he still knew Steve better than he knew himself.

He needed a battle plan, then; needed to be ready to send that massive fucking tumbleweed to some prairie in another dimension. He had to _use his words_ , like he’d heard Sam tell Steve more than once.

That he liked what they did was a decent starting point, but it wasn’t enough. He needed proof - independent of Steve - of his feelings about his body and food and the effects of the latter on the former.

He stared a little longer into the mirror, cataloguing every change, from the new softness of his chin to the extra pudge around his pecs. The belly got special attention, a fact he planned to mention to Steve later. 

Visual inventory complete; results positive. 

He moved to the next logical step, then, exiting the bathroom to slide back into bed, sighing a little as the cool sheets brushed against his belly.

In this, he was still a soldier with a mission, and he spent the afternoon devoting himself to gathering the necessary intel, sliding his cold, silver fingers over his round, round stomach as the other hand gripped his cock.

Three hours and as many orgasms later, Bucky observed that semen was a real bitch to clean from the grooves of his arm, but he was confident in his conclusions. Freshly showered, he pushed his damp hair off his face and headed to the dresser he shared with Steve.

He knelt to tug the bottom drawer open, reaching to the back. His metal fingers closed around what he sought, and when he straightened, the red henley was clutched in his hand. It had been in the drawer for weeks, ever since what Bucky thought of as The Night Steve Lost His Mind.

He’d been sprawled on the couch after a large and hasty snack binge, having been unable to wait for the promised Greek food that Steve was bringing. He’d had both hands resting gingerly on top of his stomach, the evidence of the two dozen chocolate chip cookies he’d practically inhaled. Every panted breath drew his shirt a little further up, and after a couple futile tugs, he’d given up.

When Steve came in and saw him lying there, he’d thought he must look ridiculous. He planted his elbows firmly into the cushion and struggled into a more normal position, but he was fuller than he’d realized; it actually was a struggle to push himself up. After he’d managed it, he directed a rueful smile at Steve, who was full-on staring at the roll of flesh exposed by his shirt’s failure to comply with basic etiquette.

The shirt was too small and he knew it-- the seams had protested that morning when he put it on, and Steve’s expression now seemed equally put out.

“No,” he said flatly, very obviously struggling for composure, fists clenched at his sides. “Bucky … you … you _can’t._ I can’t.”

“Not making much sense, Stevie,” Bucky pointed out, one eyebrow arched. “Uh, and I kinda had dessert already. Sorry.”

Steve dropped the bags of food on the table and pointed a finger sternly at Bucky. “Just-- wait there. I’ll be back.”

Bucky would have protested, but the door was already shutting behind Steve. Twenty minutes later, he shook himself out of his bemused stupor and headed for the table with a shrug. No reason to waste good food, he thought, and then Steve was hustling back through the door with purpose, yet another bag in his hand.

This one he thrust at Bucky, who glanced down to check its contents and huffed, shaking it in Steve’s direction. “You ran outta here to go shopping?”

Steve snatched the bag from Bucky’s grip and upended it so that a veritable rainbow of fabric fell to the floor. They stared at each other for a moment, and then both of them stared at the floor. 

Henleys. One size up, from what Bucky could see of the nearest tag, and in every color Steve had been able to find, with the obvious exception of red. 

“Pick one,” Steve ordered, toeing his shoe into a blue sleeve and kicking it toward Bucky. “And go change. That one you’re wearing …” he trailed off, cheeks flushing the same color as the garment he was maligning.

Bucky got it, then, and grinned. It was too much for Steve, this shirt.

And now, as he held that shirt in his hands again, he thought too much might be just enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [whowaswillbe](http://whowaswillbe.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr, so come say hi and talk about pretty boys that break your brain with me!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [whowaswillbe](http://whowaswillbe.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr, so come say hi and talk about pretty boys that break your brain with me!


End file.
